


Tolerance

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [20]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>part of the <i>Live By the Sword ‘verse</i>. How much can one man go through?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tolerance

**Author's Note:**

> A few weeks prior to _Die By The Sword_.

 

 

 The first night, Arthur turned over, his arm going out automatically to encircle the other man’s waist.  He blinked with confusion when there was nothing there but blank space and a cold bed.  Then he remembered. 

He stared at the fluffy white pillow until the dawn broke through his large windows, and it was time to go to work.

*

The third night, he had one of his nightmares, and cried out for Lance, rolling to his side, his forehead and chest soaked in sweat.

Still nothing.  Still an empty bed. 

His hands shaking, he grabbed at the pillow on the other side of the bed and held it, his arms wrapped around the stuffed thing, his eyes blank and dry.

*

The sixth night he wandered aimlessly around the den of his loft, the tv on, remote in his hand.  _Click.  Click.  Click._

Nothing on as usual, save infomercials and bad old movies.  He turned the thing off when he came across the umpteenth airing of _Raiders of the Lost Ark._ Not that he didn’t like the movie, but the midnight screening he and Lancelot had gone to during college sprang to his mind, and he suddenly found his stomach was twisty and he felt as if he would vomit.

He lay on the cool tile of the bathroom floor until dawn, gut still heaving, but never finding any relief.

*

“Go home, Castus,” Captain Cragen said.  Arthur nodded, though he hadn’t in all honesty heard what his fellow captain had said.  “Sorry?”

“Go home.  You look like shit.  Take some personal time, okay?  I’ll run it by Germanus, I’m sure he’ll approve.”  Despite the fact Cragen had no authority to tell Arthur what to do, he knew the other man only meant well.  Scrubbing a hand over his face, Arthur stood and pulled his keys out of his desk drawer.  “You’ll call?”

“If we need anything, yeah,” the other man replied, smiling briefly.  “You need to sleep.”

_Wish I could._ “Thanks, Don.”

Cragen watched him go, thinking something definitely wasn’t working right in Castus’ brain if he agreed to time off without an argument.

*

It was strange to be home during the day.  Arthur gathered up the stack of mail by the door after he had almost fallen over it, but dumped it on the table without going through it.  Moving stiffly to the kitchen, he put on a pot of coffee automatically, and sighed deeply when the aroma filled the room.  He filled his mug, only giving brief notice to the fact that he had made a full eight cup pot out of habit, and walked to the large couch in his den.

He slumped onto the thing, took a few sips, and closed his eyes just to rest them.  If he took a nap, he’d never be able to sleep that night. 

“Arthur, for god’s sake, don’t nap.  You know how bad your insomnia is – you want me to have to force you to pop melatonin when you can’t sleep tonight?”

Arthur’s eyelids popped open, and he sloshed coffee onto himself as he jerked awake.  “I’m not, I just closed my eyes for a minute,” he told Lance, who was eyeing him with a disbelieving look.  The other man stood at the foot of the couch, one hand on his hip.  “Right.  Anyway,” Lance went on, moving to sit next to Arthur, relaxing with his hands behind his head, “what are you doing home in the middle of the day?  Nice surprise,” he tilted his head to look at Arthur, his dark eyes shining, “but I know you.  You don’t take vacation time.  What’s up?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Arthur shot back, then grinned.  He scooted over until the line of his hip and thigh were pressed against Lance's, then lay over so he was nestled against the other man’s heart.  He snuggled happily when Lance’s arms went around him, and a soft kiss was pressed to the top of his head.

“You’re being all fuzzy today,” Lance said softly against Arthur’s hair.  “What’s the cause for the teddy bear routine?”  His arms tightened around Arthur, who sighed again and nestled up closer. 

A tiny voice in Arthur’s head was buzzing around like an annoying mosquito – he caught a few words, like “wrong” and “gone” and “death.”  He ignored it, but frowned against Lancelot’s chest.  “Not sure,” he answered quietly, “but if you want me to stop….”

“No,” Lance interjected, his eyes sliding closed as he replied, “it’s nice.  You’re usually not this relaxed.  Not in the daytime,” he joked, and Arthur swatted his leg.  He pressed his lips to the place where he could feel the beat of Lance's heart.  Raising a hand, he lazily unbuttoned the other man’s shirt, pushed it aside, and lay his face back down, feeling the heat of the skin and the _bump bump_ against his own flesh.

“What would I do without this?” he whispered.  Lance’s fingers found the swirls of dark hair at the nape of his neck, playing with them gently.  “You’ll never have to find out,” he answered, kissing Arthur’s forehead, then cheeks, and after lifting his face, his mouth.  “I promise.  We’ve been through too much already, Arthur.  Enough drama.  I’d never do anything like betray you for my family.  Or take payouts.  Or get shot and die and leave you alone.  Right?  I mean, how stupid would that be?”

Arthur sat up, goosebumps breaking out on his arms and legs.  “What?” he asked, a horrified expression on his face.  “Die and leave me – Lance, what the hell?  Where did you get those notions?  Payouts?  What are you talking about?”  The voice in the back of his head was louder now, and swearing.

Arthur’s voice had risen with his confusion, and he squeezed the other man’s arm hard, the flesh feeling brittle and dry under his fingers.  Lance merely smiled at him, and raised the other hand, petting Arthur’s skin.  A strange combination of emotions crossed Lance's face; compassion, great regret, and above all, tenderness and love.  “You were everything that was good in me, Arthur,” he said slowly, his diction clear and precise as if he wanted to be certain Arthur understood him, “everything that was important, and clean, and right.  I never wanted to leave you,” he sighed, shaking his head, “but I wanted you to be safe, and sometimes we’re not given the choice.  I want you to know that I love you.  I’ll always love you, and I will see you again.  I’ll be waiting the second you’re ready.”

A small noise made its way out of Arthur, a tiny whimper that came with the burn that filled his eyes.  “No,” he pleaded quietly, ashamed of the tone, but not really caring, “No.  Lance, please.  I can’t do this without you.  I can’t.  My life doesn’t mean anything with you gone.  You say I was everything that was good in you?  You’re all that is _anything_ alive in me.  Anything happy, or vital, or full.  Please!”

The scalding tears that fell from his eyes ate at his skin, free flowing acid.  Arthur moaned, clutching at the other man’s torso, even as Lance tried to move away.  “Don’t,” Arthur whispered, dark and desperate.  “Don’t do this to me.  You can’t!  You can’t,” he sobbed in earnest, his hands tearing at the material of Lance’s shirt.  The white fabric came away in his hands easily, and Arthur looked up in shock.  Lance was still smiling gently at him, but Arthur could see parts of the wall through him.  “No!” he screamed as the other man faded away totally, the black of the couch and the blank white of the walls taking his place.

The smell of coffee was overpowering, and as Arthur jerked awake, the heat of the liquid he had spilled on his pants made him cry out in pain.  He staggered to his feet, his hand fluttering and waving at his leg, try to covering the burn, dropping his mug.  He made to go to the kitchen to soak the skin in cold water, but as his brain was telling him to stay standing up, his body decided against it, and he sat back down jerkily.

The stinging of the scald filled his mind and his nerves, and he dropped his head, eyes sliding closed and his face screwing up.  He burst into fresh tears, the old ones that he had cried during his dream drying in lines on his face.  He sat on the leather couch, his hand over his burned skin, the pants wet and dripping on the floor.  He sobbed.  He screamed and railed and beat his other hand on the furniture, finally overturning the small ottoman that sat nearby.

He raised a shaking hand to his throat and dragged out the onyx cross he’d been wearing for the past few weeks.  Pulling hard, he broke the chain, and flung the thing across the loft.

“God!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, breathing heavy, face a mess.  He wiped under his eyes and nose, then picked up the mug he had dropped, throwing it after the necklace.  It shattered against the wall, leaving a brown stain and white shards of ceramic everywhere.

Still sobbing, he bent in half, laying his face on his knees. 

He stayed there for several hours, until the dark and the chillyness of the loft finally got him moving.  He stumbled up the stairs to his bedroom, where he turned on the shower as hot as he could stand it, and stripped off, stepping in and allowing the water to beat on his body.  When the water went cold, he got out, toweled off, and slid into bed after dressing in pj bottoms.

After a few minutes of staring into the night-dark room, he stood back up, and padded over to his dresser.  Removing a tshirt he found there, he pulled it on, and lay back down.

The faint odor of patchouli oil reached his nostrils, and he could almost taste Lance's skin on the other man’s shirt.  Closing his eyes, he slept.

*

The fourteenth night, Arthur tossed and turned for a short time, then slept.  He woke in the morning and made his four cup pot of coffee, watching the street from his window as he sipped.  He hadn’t dreamed or cried since the week previous.  He really hadn’t done anything, truth be told, and as he finished off his coffee, he fingered the crisp white paper that he had written his notice on the night before.

The commander would be disappointed to be sure, but Arthur knew he would understand.  He just couldn’t look at his job with the same enthusiam he had before.  He felt as if he were walking through a fog, eternally chasing the small lamp that signaled the end of his solitary trip, but it was continually out of reach.  He thought the people in his office wouldn’t fault him his retirement.

Setting his mug in the sink, he picked up the letter, his briefcase, and his gun.  Locking the loft door behind him, he walked down the steps and to the street, where the nearest train station was only a few blocks away.  He had sold his Triumph two days before, and the car he was thinking of donating to the department as something to auction off for charity.

The sun shone, the birds sang, and children of various ages made their way around him to the trains as well, laughing and generally making a racket.

Arthur heard none of it, felt none of it, didn’t paid any of it any attention. 

The only things he saw were a pair of brown eyes, and a waiting hand.


End file.
